


Into the Void

by LiveOakWithMoss



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Deserving of the 'Tyelpe's life is fucking tragedy' tag, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Obsession, Power Play, References to torture and violence, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 07:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Celebrimbor dreams of darkness; it is safer than the brilliance he faces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Into the Void

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [坠入虚无](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8402098) by [Depressed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Depressed/pseuds/Depressed)



> 0\. Written as part of the Tolkien Secret Art Exchange for lost-in-angband.  
> 1\. I am totally onboard this (horrific, messed up, delightful) ship, but this is the first time I've written it. It was exciting to get the push to actually do it, at last.

In Nargothrond, Celebrimbor used to dream of open skies. He would dream of great plains, big sky, bright and expansive and open; kestrels wheeling against the sun, not a tree in sight, not a shadow but those of the clouds flickering over the wide plains.

Now he dreamed of caves.

He told himself it was the time he’d spent at Narvi’s side. They’d always joked that they rubbed off on each other more than they cared to admit: Narvi’s jewelry getting more and more delicate, to his frustration; Celebrimbor developing a disturbing fondness for rich ales and using runes more and more in his designs. But though he missed Narvi, and thought of him often, he could not quite convince himself it was for his old friend’s sake that each night he dreamed of deep halls, echoing caverns, narrow passageways.

He was dreaming, he knew, less of caves than he was dreaming of safety. Of the last place he had felt stable. Of being able to put his back to a wall and feel the secure strength behind him, bracing him, the earth fortifying him with the knowledge that there was nothing…creeping up on him.

Of course, he told himself, there was nothing creeping up on him. Of course, he told himself, he had his back to the wall plenty these days.

Annatar saw to that.

 

-

 

Sometimes Celebrimbor wondered if Annatar knew how restless he made Celebrimbor’s sleep, how fitful his dreams – but then, of course he did, of course he knew. He must.

Annatar knew everything.

Each day so decorous, so diplomatic, so cool. They’d pass each other in the hallways, and Annatar would nod as courteously and dispassionately as he would to any passing courtier, his eyes flickering without interest over Celebrimbor’s face (they‘d been green, of late, though Celebrimbor didn’t expect it would last; Annatar was ever whimsical with his appearance). When they spoke, in daylight hours, Annatar would watch him with utter blandness, his voice entirely level – bored, almost.

By all appearances, Celebrimbor was as uninteresting to him as the latest report on potato imports from the north – less interesting, perhaps. Annatar had actually leaned forward in his seat and taken a few notes when the merchant had presented his survey findings.

This studied indifference got under Celebrimbor’s skin and itched like a parasite, until every glance away from him made his cheeks burn, every passionless syllable from Annatar’s lips made him shift in his seat, and every polite shrug of Annatar’s shoulders reduced Celebrimbor, later, to a panting wreck in his own rooms, hand desperate between his legs, bringing himself off to the memory of Annatar’s utter, profound, practiced _disinterest_.

That, of course, was during the day.

 

-

 

In the long hours of the night, when Celebrimbor labored over his forge and drew complex schema on the parchment of his work table, strong hands would seize him from behind and shove him so hard against the wall that he’d gasp, winded, and already aroused. He would turn his face to the side, wincing as Annatar pressed his front to the wall, and lips would be laid alongside his ear while a low, purring voice – so different from the clipped, bland tones of the daylight courtier – would murmur tender profanities against his skin.

“Ah, Tyelperinquar, you are hard for me already – you throb for me, drip for me, ache for me… How _eager_ you are, my beauty. So very eager…”

Celebrimbor no longer attempted to pretend otherwise, and would writhe eagerly back against Annatar’s body as those frighteningly strong hands pressed his wrists to the stone and a hot tongue slid down his neck, and then –

Annatar would flip him around.

Back to the wall, helpless, unable and unwilling to resist, Celebrimbor would close his eyes and whisper Dwarvish curses as Annatar sank to his knees before him and brought him off with his mouth. Even kneeling, Annatar seemed no more a supplicant than ever – In fact, Annatar on his knees, in loose flowing robes that revealed as much as they hid, seemed as commanding as though he towered above Celebrimbor in full armor.

The hint of teeth he always let scrape down Celebrimbor’s length, generally as he was on the very edge of his climax, did nothing to dispel that impression.

 

-

 

Celebrimbor felt constantly on the brink of falling, constantly like the sky above him was opening wide enough to swallow him whole, almost oppressive in its openness. He worked manically, like one compelled, and found himself muttering, “Avoidance, avoid, void, _void”_ under his breath, over and over. He caught Annatar watching him once, as he whispered and worked, sweat pouring from him, and Annatar’s eyes were pure gold, and greedy.

The sky was a void, Annatar was a void, and he was falling into both.

“I love you,” he whispered once, wrecked, as he slumped forward against Annatar’s bare chest, on one of the rare occasions that Annatar allowed him between his thighs. And Annatar had run fingers through Celebrimbor’s dark hair, and laughed.

He allowed Celebrimbor to sleep wrapped around him that night; in fact roused him twice to have him again, Celebrimbor waking half hard and with Annatar already straddling his waist. By dawn he felt drained, exhausted, as if something had been pulled from him by force, but Annatar slept peacefully against his side, his hair like molten silk against the pillows. He had laid one hand, splay fingered, over Celebrimbor’s heart, and Celebrimbor had placed his hand over Annatar’s, holding it close, desperate to take this as a sign.

“I love you,” he whispered again, but Annatar did not stir, and Celebrimbor fell blindly into sleep, that final void, and dreamt, once more, of caves.

 

-

 

In the end, his doom came under wide, bright skies, and as his sightless head tilted back on his shattered neck, mouth gaping to the sky around the pike protruding from it, Sauron had laid his hand – open and gauntleted – once more over his ruined breast, and whispered,

“And how I love you, Tyelperinquar.”

Armies were falling, and wraiths screamed the echoes of battle-cries.

“My beauty, my whore.”

Celebrimbor had been forced to watch it, all of it, before Sauron carved out his eyes.

“My traitor.”

Sauron’s eyes were no longer green.

They never had been.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 2\. [This has been translated into Chinese.](http://d-depressed.lofter.com/post/4068f6_79b3b95)


End file.
